Grateful for the breath
that sustains me
for friends and good food
for smiles and old songs
that remind me of
first kisses and slow
dances on gym floors
for spades and trash
talking and friends
you can lean on while
you laugh
or memories
that come in these
moments that are filled
with people who no longer
populate my life
but certainly my
heart
grateful for the
smell of cologne
and the musk of sweat
conversations that
continue well
into the next song
and dish washing
while people wobble
or slide and paying
attention to the details
that often get missed
I am grateful
for community
and the assurance
that we are not
alone.
Valerie Bridgeman
© August 31, 2013
Saturday, August 31, 2013
Friday, August 30, 2013
242
I made this decision
about writing early on
or maybe I should say late
last year that I would write
everyday in 2013
a poem, something of
my own need to rhyme
or make reason of the world
in verse, with my heart
cut open and the proverbial
"bleeding on the page"
with pen and here I am
in Texas, in Desoto
watching tennis and listening
to Fringe science as if it
were more real than the war
just on the boundaries
of our world...
Syria's children and women
are dying because their government
sees them as expendable
the necessary cost of ruling
a world they envision
and about to die
because our government
sees some "good" in death
named war by invasion
and how are
we to understand
it in this moment
242 days I've sat
at my computer
or with my journal
speaking with my
writing partner in my head
I've sat here promising
and keeping this promise
to write even while I struggle
to stay connected to all
the rest of the work
at the tip of my fingers
my intellectual
offering to the world
how was I to know
when I started 242 days
ago that I would be
able to just write
even when it
makes no sense
Valerie Bridgeman
© August 30, 2013
about writing early on
or maybe I should say late
last year that I would write
everyday in 2013
a poem, something of
my own need to rhyme
or make reason of the world
in verse, with my heart
cut open and the proverbial
"bleeding on the page"
with pen and here I am
in Texas, in Desoto
watching tennis and listening
to Fringe science as if it
were more real than the war
just on the boundaries
of our world...
Syria's children and women
are dying because their government
sees them as expendable
the necessary cost of ruling
a world they envision
and about to die
because our government
sees some "good" in death
named war by invasion
and how are
we to understand
it in this moment
242 days I've sat
at my computer
or with my journal
speaking with my
writing partner in my head
I've sat here promising
and keeping this promise
to write even while I struggle
to stay connected to all
the rest of the work
at the tip of my fingers
my intellectual
offering to the world
how was I to know
when I started 242 days
ago that I would be
able to just write
even when it
makes no sense
Valerie Bridgeman
© August 30, 2013
Thursday, August 29, 2013
HONESTLY
honestly asking
answering honestly
what the heart needs
to know what's true
to find that inner place
that speaks and tells you
where the deep joy
is that only belongs
to you
Valerie Bridgeman
© August 29, 2013
answering honestly
what the heart needs
to know what's true
to find that inner place
that speaks and tells you
where the deep joy
is that only belongs
to you
Valerie Bridgeman
© August 29, 2013
Wednesday, August 28, 2013
TRAUMA
Prayer and trauma
are a part of what it
means to be mama
and right this
moment
I carry both
for our world
Valerie Bridgeman
© August 28, 2013
are a part of what it
means to be mama
and right this
moment
I carry both
for our world
Valerie Bridgeman
© August 28, 2013
ON THE HORIZON
War is on the horizon
and I can see the smoke
even as I smell the chemicals
that killed those children
who lay side by side
in death at the machinations
of their government
I can see the tanks
hear the engines of
drones close in
to strike with weapons
just as lethal
and I know that there
are more children
on the way
to a burial
ground.
Valerie Bridgeman
© August 27, 2013
and I can see the smoke
even as I smell the chemicals
that killed those children
who lay side by side
in death at the machinations
of their government
I can see the tanks
hear the engines of
drones close in
to strike with weapons
just as lethal
and I know that there
are more children
on the way
to a burial
ground.
Valerie Bridgeman
© August 27, 2013
Monday, August 26, 2013
NOT VERY POETIC
I love you
nothing poetic about these
words
they come out trite
overused
not very imaginative
or creative
but they are the only
words that I have today
not very poetic
I know
I love you
though...
that's all I've got
today.
Valerie Bridgeman
© August 26, 2013
nothing poetic about these
words
they come out trite
overused
not very imaginative
or creative
but they are the only
words that I have today
not very poetic
I know
I love you
though...
that's all I've got
today.
Valerie Bridgeman
© August 26, 2013
Sunday, August 25, 2013
LESSONS FROM MY PAW PAW
Lesson from my grandfather, PawPaw, Kempis McKinney, Venerable Ancestor:
If you want to get rid of snakes in a field, cut down the weeds where they hide and turn over the dirt. Be sure to wear thick boots when you do because you'll be forcing them to move and they will be dangerous. In addition, set out smoking pots to smoke them out once the weeds are gone. It's dangerous and takes time, but worth it if you want to plant good crops without fear of being bitten.
*apply this truth and parable in various ways and places*
PS: A friend added: "Ahhhhh, but when you do away with their hiding place and smoke them out into the open then you must "whack" their heads off. Never give a snake the grace to come back. (Sorry if that sounds too harsh) IJS"
Valerie Bridgeman
© August 25, 2013
If you want to get rid of snakes in a field, cut down the weeds where they hide and turn over the dirt. Be sure to wear thick boots when you do because you'll be forcing them to move and they will be dangerous. In addition, set out smoking pots to smoke them out once the weeds are gone. It's dangerous and takes time, but worth it if you want to plant good crops without fear of being bitten.
*apply this truth and parable in various ways and places*
PS: A friend added: "Ahhhhh, but when you do away with their hiding place and smoke them out into the open then you must "whack" their heads off. Never give a snake the grace to come back. (Sorry if that sounds too harsh) IJS"
Valerie Bridgeman
© August 25, 2013
MISS ESSIE
My mother's godmother--who was my grandmother's best friend and our nearest neighbor when I was growing up--lived to be 110. I remember her most for her baking teacakes, chopping firewood, and drawing water from the well that our clans shared between us. Oh, and killing the random rattlesnake with a hoe in hand. Ms. Pope lived alone and cooked and cleaned for herself until she was 98, when she fell and broke her hip. She outlived most of her 18 children and many of her grandchildren.
The last time I visited her (as it turns out only a month or so before her death), she was sitting on the porch of the assisted living facility where she resided, having her nails groomed. She was bantering back and forth with the assistant who wanted to put red polish on her nails. She was having NONE of it. I just watched until the ritual was completed. It turned out, this event was a Saturday regular.
When she did turn her attention to me, Ms. Pope told me that she didn't know why God left her on the planet since she'd outlived so many of her children, her husband and all of her closest friends. I felt like I was in the presence of the Holy. She asked me to help her to the bathroom and I did. She could still walk, but was very frail. Her skin was paper thin and soft, and I was afraid I would hurt her with my grip. She wasn't. She leaned heavily on me and expected me to be strong.
She was weak physically, but her mind was sharp. I mean SHARP. She remembered details of my life, of my marriage, asked about my children by name (I didn't even she knew them, 8 and 10 at the time). She told me stories about my grandmother, my mother, and about the area in which we lived. She talked about farming and all the changes she had seen in her world. She marveled that neither cars nor computers were invented when she was born. She was not nostalgic for a world that "used to be." She thought changes were the way the world worked. I felt extremely blessed to be sitting with her and not having to share her with anyone in that early fall moment. In a newspaper article about her when she was 106, she told the reporter that she attributed her long life to lots of laughter and her faith. She said she took life as it came.
Today as she visits me in my heart and my memory, I honor Ms. Essie Pope who lived her entire life in central Alabama, farmed, reared children, was a great friend, and attended Enon Baptist Church in Childersburg every Sunday she wasn't sick. Ms. Pope was born in February 1888. Her mother was born in slavery. She died in November 1998. She is a venerable Ancestor of the Human Tribe. Ase/Amen/It is so
Valerie Bridgeman
© August 25, 2013
The last time I visited her (as it turns out only a month or so before her death), she was sitting on the porch of the assisted living facility where she resided, having her nails groomed. She was bantering back and forth with the assistant who wanted to put red polish on her nails. She was having NONE of it. I just watched until the ritual was completed. It turned out, this event was a Saturday regular.
When she did turn her attention to me, Ms. Pope told me that she didn't know why God left her on the planet since she'd outlived so many of her children, her husband and all of her closest friends. I felt like I was in the presence of the Holy. She asked me to help her to the bathroom and I did. She could still walk, but was very frail. Her skin was paper thin and soft, and I was afraid I would hurt her with my grip. She wasn't. She leaned heavily on me and expected me to be strong.
She was weak physically, but her mind was sharp. I mean SHARP. She remembered details of my life, of my marriage, asked about my children by name (I didn't even she knew them, 8 and 10 at the time). She told me stories about my grandmother, my mother, and about the area in which we lived. She talked about farming and all the changes she had seen in her world. She marveled that neither cars nor computers were invented when she was born. She was not nostalgic for a world that "used to be." She thought changes were the way the world worked. I felt extremely blessed to be sitting with her and not having to share her with anyone in that early fall moment. In a newspaper article about her when she was 106, she told the reporter that she attributed her long life to lots of laughter and her faith. She said she took life as it came.
Today as she visits me in my heart and my memory, I honor Ms. Essie Pope who lived her entire life in central Alabama, farmed, reared children, was a great friend, and attended Enon Baptist Church in Childersburg every Sunday she wasn't sick. Ms. Pope was born in February 1888. Her mother was born in slavery. She died in November 1998. She is a venerable Ancestor of the Human Tribe. Ase/Amen/It is so
Valerie Bridgeman
© August 25, 2013
Saturday, August 24, 2013
COMMEMORATION
Today people from all across the country and from all spectra of life and ethnicities commemorated the 1963 March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom. I was glad that Bayard Rustin's contributions 50 years ago were front and center in so many of the discussions and interviews--the Intellectual Architect for the March, a Quaker committed to active non-violent resistance and unapologetically out gay man.
Maybe the next major celebration, they'll highlight the women--Ella Baker, Dorothy Height, Maya Angelou, Prathia Hall, and on and on. I wonder why women are always the last to be commemorated.
I wasn't there. It didn't compel me; it didn't feel "urgent" to be there. It did feel "historic" but not necessarily "prophetic." This observation is not an indictment. Perhaps its the fact that we can organize with a click and be on Google+ hangout in a moment; or that young activists and organizers are getting on about the business without much historical reference. I'm glad my friends were there. I am.
I actually wished I could be there. But sitting in my living room, listening to PBS's American Master documentary on James Baldwin, and thinking deeply about what my role is in changing the world made me a part of the march 2013. It really did, though I won't have any instagram photos to upload about being in Washington. I tweeted and Facebook posted all morning and afternoon as a part of the event. In 1963, no one could have done that. But it's 2013.
Maybe in 2038, the 75th anniversary, I'll have another reality--I'll be 79 then. Healthy and pursuing justice. And loving. And being loved. Here's hoping the world won't need to "commemorate" this landmark event in USA history by noting how very much things smell and look all too familiar to the concerns they had in 1963. I hope we will be saying something much, much better about our country and about the world when I'm 79..
Valerie Bridgeman
© August 24, 2013
FREEDOM
Freedom is a choice
internal, made even
if handcuffs chaff your wrist
or bars stare back at you
in the night--you can
be caged without being
caged; imprisoned
without being in a prison
freedom starts in the mind
and settles in the soul
no one can keep you
locked up against your
will; that's what made
Malcolm X so dangerous
even in a state-owned
bed-and-breakfast
Freedom comes when
you choose life
for every part of your
existence and refuse
to bow to the forces
that try their best to claim
you; it's why people
who were on plantations
(who other people called "slaves")
could sing with conviction
"before I be a slave
I'll be buried in my grave"
only those who think
freedom is in someone
else's hand think
that song was a lie.
But freedom--freedom
is a bird set loose
from a gilded cage
door flung wide
and wings spanned
upward, always
always upward to
the only place that
belongs to anyone
who claims
themselves
alone.
Valerie Bridgeman
© August 24, 2013
internal, made even
if handcuffs chaff your wrist
or bars stare back at you
in the night--you can
be caged without being
caged; imprisoned
without being in a prison
freedom starts in the mind
and settles in the soul
no one can keep you
locked up against your
will; that's what made
Malcolm X so dangerous
even in a state-owned
bed-and-breakfast
Freedom comes when
you choose life
for every part of your
existence and refuse
to bow to the forces
that try their best to claim
you; it's why people
who were on plantations
(who other people called "slaves")
could sing with conviction
"before I be a slave
I'll be buried in my grave"
only those who think
freedom is in someone
else's hand think
that song was a lie.
But freedom--freedom
is a bird set loose
from a gilded cage
door flung wide
and wings spanned
upward, always
always upward to
the only place that
belongs to anyone
who claims
themselves
alone.
Valerie Bridgeman
© August 24, 2013
Friday, August 23, 2013
I FIND
In the stillness of the air
the shine of the moon
the arms of God
I find Love.
Valerie Bridgeman
© August 23, 2013
the shine of the moon
the arms of God
I find Love.
Valerie Bridgeman
© August 23, 2013
THE MOON SMILED
The moon smiled
at me, showed me her
face with eyes, nose, mouth
full frontal smiling
I swear she looked
directly at me
and talked without
opening her mouth
I heard her say
I am the protector
of the night and I will
hold you in safety
Mama to midnight dreams
and visions on the edge
of waking, she knows what
humans are made of
she gave up her own dust
come down in the Euphrates Valley
and offered us the stuff of heaven
she smiles knowing we
are ignorant of her power
that we are willful in our
unknowing, but she smiles
I saw her and paused
I waited for her voice
the lunar language of
eons gone by
I listened, knowing
she is not quick with her words
but she means them
whenever she decides
to decode the universe
for anyone paying attention
Her smile captivated me
enchanted me like
the priestess of hidden things
like the goddess of
wisdom that grows best
on the dark side of her surface
She incubates joy in the night
and yields it in the morning
when the Sun comes to work
but she does not yield her
power--she only waits for the dark
to smile again at anyone
who stops to honor her.
The moon smiled at me
I gave thanks, and smiled back.
Valerie Bridgeman
© August 23, 2013
at me, showed me her
face with eyes, nose, mouth
full frontal smiling
I swear she looked
directly at me
and talked without
opening her mouth
I heard her say
I am the protector
of the night and I will
hold you in safety
Mama to midnight dreams
and visions on the edge
of waking, she knows what
humans are made of
she gave up her own dust
come down in the Euphrates Valley
and offered us the stuff of heaven
she smiles knowing we
are ignorant of her power
that we are willful in our
unknowing, but she smiles
I saw her and paused
I waited for her voice
the lunar language of
eons gone by
I listened, knowing
she is not quick with her words
but she means them
whenever she decides
to decode the universe
for anyone paying attention
Her smile captivated me
enchanted me like
the priestess of hidden things
like the goddess of
wisdom that grows best
on the dark side of her surface
She incubates joy in the night
and yields it in the morning
when the Sun comes to work
but she does not yield her
power--she only waits for the dark
to smile again at anyone
who stops to honor her.
The moon smiled at me
I gave thanks, and smiled back.
Valerie Bridgeman
© August 23, 2013
Thursday, August 22, 2013
ANTOINETTE TUFF: STORYTELLER
MEET THE WOMAN WHO PREVENTED A MASS SHOOTING
MEET THE BOOKKEEPER WHO STOPPED GA SCHOOL SHOOTER
THE 911 CALL
This is not a joke
He was willing to kill
because he had
no reason to live, he said
a hurting young man
He had an AK 47
She had prayer and a story
She told him stories, Jaha
We keep thinking the stories
are making no difference
we have so many dead bodies
laying at our feet to prove it
but Antoinette had stories
as the un-weapon, the opposite
of a AK 47, the nonviolent
answer to body bags was
a story about losing her husband
of 33 years, of grief, of how
she and the gunman could be
kin since her mother's birth name
is the same as the would-be
killer--suicide by cops after
you take out a school full
of future leaders--
I just prayed, Antoinette said
I just told him stories
compassion, composure
she told him stories
and just kept talking
to him--she knew
the power of stories
he was agitated
cold and loading
clips... she was sitting there
"bullets don't have a name"
terrified and praying in
her heart while she just
kept telling stories
with love. "I loved him," she said.
She didn't know his name
when she looked at him
and loved him and that love
overcame her terror and
Love told her what stories
to tell; she knew nothing
about him except he was
human--not the monster
we would imagine him
to be--human, with a story
he was ready to take her life
and his and so many others
but his story heard her
story and the love
pluming out like smoke
over barbeque
She loved him, terrified but loving
"we're not gonna hate you, baby"
"It's a good thing, you're giving up"
She didn't know his name
nothing about him
except human, sick, scared
ready to die, but she loved him
and told him stories
Valerie Bridgeman
© August 22, 2013
MEET THE BOOKKEEPER WHO STOPPED GA SCHOOL SHOOTER
THE 911 CALL
This is not a joke
He was willing to kill
because he had
no reason to live, he said
a hurting young man
He had an AK 47
She had prayer and a story
She told him stories, Jaha
We keep thinking the stories
are making no difference
we have so many dead bodies
laying at our feet to prove it
but Antoinette had stories
as the un-weapon, the opposite
of a AK 47, the nonviolent
answer to body bags was
a story about losing her husband
of 33 years, of grief, of how
she and the gunman could be
kin since her mother's birth name
is the same as the would-be
killer--suicide by cops after
you take out a school full
of future leaders--
I just prayed, Antoinette said
I just told him stories
compassion, composure
she told him stories
and just kept talking
to him--she knew
the power of stories
he was agitated
cold and loading
clips... she was sitting there
"bullets don't have a name"
terrified and praying in
her heart while she just
kept telling stories
with love. "I loved him," she said.
She didn't know his name
when she looked at him
and loved him and that love
overcame her terror and
Love told her what stories
to tell; she knew nothing
about him except he was
human--not the monster
we would imagine him
to be--human, with a story
he was ready to take her life
and his and so many others
but his story heard her
story and the love
pluming out like smoke
over barbeque
She loved him, terrified but loving
"we're not gonna hate you, baby"
"It's a good thing, you're giving up"
She didn't know his name
nothing about him
except human, sick, scared
ready to die, but she loved him
and told him stories
Valerie Bridgeman
© August 22, 2013
Wednesday, August 21, 2013
BELLA
Her smile lights up the room
and drives the frowns of adults
to corners where they belong
there is no space for
sorrow when a little girl
smiles
the magic of it, the ability
to make the most unbelieving
faith-filled is the gift
that comes in a small
but wonderful package
of human flesh--not perfect--
that would mean we did not
think she needs our love or
our care or attention--
that would mean we
were self-absorbed with our need
for her not to need us
but she do... and we need her
Keep smiling, beautiful
girl as you waddle
toward your future
keep smiling after
every cry, sorrow
fall, get-back-up
smile, and we will
hold your joy
as a down payment
for what is to come.
Valerie Bridgeman
© August 21, 2013
and drives the frowns of adults
to corners where they belong
there is no space for
sorrow when a little girl
smiles
the magic of it, the ability
to make the most unbelieving
faith-filled is the gift
that comes in a small
but wonderful package
of human flesh--not perfect--
that would mean we did not
think she needs our love or
our care or attention--
that would mean we
were self-absorbed with our need
for her not to need us
but she do... and we need her
Keep smiling, beautiful
girl as you waddle
toward your future
keep smiling after
every cry, sorrow
fall, get-back-up
smile, and we will
hold your joy
as a down payment
for what is to come.
Valerie Bridgeman
© August 21, 2013
SLEEP
I fell asleep to the music
of your love and awoke
to the rhythm of joy
Valerie Bridgeman
© August 20, 2013
of your love and awoke
to the rhythm of joy
Valerie Bridgeman
© August 20, 2013
Monday, August 19, 2013
TIME
I don't know how to mark the time
between us or between this moment
where I am not sure which way
to go or even where to stand
to test the wind... it's been a long
time since I felt this unsure,
though I do not feel lost (not
sure how it's possible to hold
both "unsure" and "not lost"
in the same space, but I do)
And the time it takes to ponder
whether I have followed my joy
or lost my mind is a question
that keeps coming up
But who can say when time
moves swiftly past one
decision and on to the next
not stopping ... waiting for
no one as we've always been
told... time is a taskmaster
demanding that we keep
it moving, ponder on the run
think while you clean
pray
cook
wash and fold clothes
scrub the toilet
walk
just know that time
won't stand still
there will be no Joshua
miracle of sun
holding up the clock
for a battle of the mind
to be won. I don't really care
that time insists on
constancy... I just need to figure
out how to keep up
Valerie Bridgeman
© August 19, 2013
between us or between this moment
where I am not sure which way
to go or even where to stand
to test the wind... it's been a long
time since I felt this unsure,
though I do not feel lost (not
sure how it's possible to hold
both "unsure" and "not lost"
in the same space, but I do)
And the time it takes to ponder
whether I have followed my joy
or lost my mind is a question
that keeps coming up
But who can say when time
moves swiftly past one
decision and on to the next
not stopping ... waiting for
no one as we've always been
told... time is a taskmaster
demanding that we keep
it moving, ponder on the run
think while you clean
pray
cook
wash and fold clothes
scrub the toilet
walk
just know that time
won't stand still
there will be no Joshua
miracle of sun
holding up the clock
for a battle of the mind
to be won. I don't really care
that time insists on
constancy... I just need to figure
out how to keep up
Valerie Bridgeman
© August 19, 2013
Sunday, August 18, 2013
MYTHS THAT MARK OUR SOULS
I don't know what
a fearless journey
would look like
how we would navigate
our souls in such a way
that we could tell which
of the myths that mark
our souls are lies
and which ones are
so true to their core
that they shape us
into fearless travelers
I want to know how
to be fearless--
or whether its even
necessary in order
to make it
I know the power
of hot breath on neck
sweaty hands
palm to palm
a look that says
you're not alone in this
thing--I got you; I'm with you
no matter what
That myth is a truth
deep enough to keep
me moving
praying
holding on
until I have to pause
to catch my breath
again--the journey
so winding, so hilly
so full of surprises
like the fact
that you love/d
me at all.
Valerie Bridgeman
© August 18, 2013
a fearless journey
would look like
how we would navigate
our souls in such a way
that we could tell which
of the myths that mark
our souls are lies
and which ones are
so true to their core
that they shape us
into fearless travelers
I want to know how
to be fearless--
or whether its even
necessary in order
to make it
I know the power
of hot breath on neck
sweaty hands
palm to palm
a look that says
you're not alone in this
thing--I got you; I'm with you
no matter what
That myth is a truth
deep enough to keep
me moving
praying
holding on
until I have to pause
to catch my breath
again--the journey
so winding, so hilly
so full of surprises
like the fact
that you love/d
me at all.
Valerie Bridgeman
© August 18, 2013
Saturday, August 17, 2013
CONTENT
Packing again
to go to be with people
I've never met but know
like I know church folk
not that different from
the last church folk
preaching is an art
and a commitment
to show up to folk
who worry
question
gossip about their neighbors
think petty thoughts
and want a better life
if they can't be better people
except most everybody
wants to be better
than they are
and hope a preacher
a shaman
a barber
somebody with a little
more life and spirit
than them--at least that's
the way they frame that story--
SOMEBODY will help
them be better
I pack again, content to
be somebody to them
and to myself
to believe some
divine current
will flow through me
that words I speak
with sound like
they were first whispered
in the back halls
of heaven, delivered
to my spark of a mind
by some angelic
being content to
run errands between
god/s and humans
I'm content
to try
to be the voice
the ear that listened
the hope
for everyone
in that room
on Sunday, even
me, especially
me
Valerie Bridgeman
© August 17, 2013
to go to be with people
I've never met but know
like I know church folk
not that different from
the last church folk
preaching is an art
and a commitment
to show up to folk
who worry
question
gossip about their neighbors
think petty thoughts
and want a better life
if they can't be better people
except most everybody
wants to be better
than they are
and hope a preacher
a shaman
a barber
somebody with a little
more life and spirit
than them--at least that's
the way they frame that story--
SOMEBODY will help
them be better
I pack again, content to
be somebody to them
and to myself
to believe some
divine current
will flow through me
that words I speak
with sound like
they were first whispered
in the back halls
of heaven, delivered
to my spark of a mind
by some angelic
being content to
run errands between
god/s and humans
I'm content
to try
to be the voice
the ear that listened
the hope
for everyone
in that room
on Sunday, even
me, especially
me
Valerie Bridgeman
© August 17, 2013
Friday, August 16, 2013
THE BACK SIDE OF HISTORY
Eugene Allen
"His is a story from the back pages of history. A figure in the tiniest of print." ~ The Butler: Eugene Allen; See also, A Man of Faith
One reviewer called it the "black" Forrest Gump
Here's the problem with that:
Eugene Allen
actually lived through 8
presidents (are you counting?)
Three decades
Never missed a day...
The pantry man
who shook the hands
of eight US presidents...
He was not a fictional
idea in somebody's mind
and he was no "slow"
mentally challenged man
who got rich by accident
while history was happening
around him: no. He lived
in Washington, DC
on Georgia Avenue NW
and commuted to the back door
of the white house where he was
butler and maitre d'
once invited to a state dinner
and celebrated his birthday
with Gerald Ford...
Not some black Forrest Gump.
That is the ultimate
insult to a man who served
with dignity in a servile role...
a man who lived through
his wife's alcoholism
and infidelities and
hugged her in the end
as his story was being told
Try not to be so
insulting or disrespectful
of a life so full of history
even if it was a life on the back
pages--he knows things,
saw things, carried them
in his body while he
chose the champagne
or roasted duck and vegetables
even if his life was/is
the tiniest print in history
he is history--not a poor
man's Forrest Gump.
A man of faith
an usher
a trustee
At The Greater First Baptist Church
He used his skills of service
of reading people
in church and in the white house
He was dignified, quiet
and lived through turbulent times
and wore it well. People
say he deserved his almost 91
years. Don't insult him
by calling his life's story
a Forrest Gump knock-off.
He. ACTUALLY. EXISTED.
Valerie Bridgeman
© August 16, 2013
"His is a story from the back pages of history. A figure in the tiniest of print." ~ The Butler: Eugene Allen; See also, A Man of Faith
One reviewer called it the "black" Forrest Gump
Here's the problem with that:
Eugene Allen
actually lived through 8
presidents (are you counting?)
Three decades
Never missed a day...
The pantry man
who shook the hands
of eight US presidents...
He was not a fictional
idea in somebody's mind
and he was no "slow"
mentally challenged man
who got rich by accident
while history was happening
around him: no. He lived
in Washington, DC
on Georgia Avenue NW
and commuted to the back door
of the white house where he was
butler and maitre d'
once invited to a state dinner
and celebrated his birthday
with Gerald Ford...
Not some black Forrest Gump.
That is the ultimate
insult to a man who served
with dignity in a servile role...
a man who lived through
his wife's alcoholism
and infidelities and
hugged her in the end
as his story was being told
Try not to be so
insulting or disrespectful
of a life so full of history
even if it was a life on the back
pages--he knows things,
saw things, carried them
in his body while he
chose the champagne
or roasted duck and vegetables
even if his life was/is
the tiniest print in history
he is history--not a poor
man's Forrest Gump.
A man of faith
an usher
a trustee
At The Greater First Baptist Church
He used his skills of service
of reading people
in church and in the white house
He was dignified, quiet
and lived through turbulent times
and wore it well. People
say he deserved his almost 91
years. Don't insult him
by calling his life's story
a Forrest Gump knock-off.
He. ACTUALLY. EXISTED.
Valerie Bridgeman
© August 16, 2013
Thursday, August 15, 2013
DECISIONS TWO
Sometimes
when you least expect it
(I HATE trite sayings,
even though I use
them all the time)
but sometimes
decisions DEMAND
to be made and you
can't avoid
choosing between
two hard outcomes
where you think
there's very little good
on either side of this
decision, but you're
mitigating against
the lesser of two evils
(trite saying #2)
Still decisions
have to be made
what to eat
breathe
where to lay your head
whether you're going
to let this one or that
into your inner circle
(trite saying #3)
but you have to decide
because your life
really does
depend on it
and not everyone
can have space
in your soul
remember that
when you're
trying to decide
Valerie Bridgeman
© August 15, 2013
when you least expect it
(I HATE trite sayings,
even though I use
them all the time)
but sometimes
decisions DEMAND
to be made and you
can't avoid
choosing between
two hard outcomes
where you think
there's very little good
on either side of this
decision, but you're
mitigating against
the lesser of two evils
(trite saying #2)
Still decisions
have to be made
what to eat
breathe
where to lay your head
whether you're going
to let this one or that
into your inner circle
(trite saying #3)
but you have to decide
because your life
really does
depend on it
and not everyone
can have space
in your soul
remember that
when you're
trying to decide
Valerie Bridgeman
© August 15, 2013
DECISIONS
They have to be made
you can't hold off forever
and not making a decision
is a decision
just so you know
Valerie Bridgeman
© August 14, 2013
you can't hold off forever
and not making a decision
is a decision
just so you know
Valerie Bridgeman
© August 14, 2013
Tuesday, August 13, 2013
DON'T WORRY MY MAMA SAYS
Don't worry
Mama words
I let them soak in
hope I take them
into my body
and they lodge
there
Don't worry
we will get
through this
you will be
taken care of
no matter what
even if you don't know
where it will come
from it will come
Baba will not let
his daughter down
"If you ever think
you can't live without
something, call me
and I'll tell you how"
(your words come
back in this "don't worry"
moment)
If you ever think...
Valerie Bridgeman
© August 13, 2013
Mama words
I let them soak in
hope I take them
into my body
and they lodge
there
Don't worry
we will get
through this
you will be
taken care of
no matter what
even if you don't know
where it will come
from it will come
Baba will not let
his daughter down
"If you ever think
you can't live without
something, call me
and I'll tell you how"
(your words come
back in this "don't worry"
moment)
If you ever think...
Valerie Bridgeman
© August 13, 2013
Monday, August 12, 2013
DOES THAT TELL YOU ANYTHING
I left a tenured position
Black Woman
Tenured
In an American
Institution of
Higher Education
I left without another job
To which to go
Does that tell
You anything
About toxicity
About racism
About sexism
About being the “only one”
In 2013 at a “liberal”
Institution
I left of my own free will
I couldn’t have
Another hive outbreak
Another breakthrough migraine
Another panic attack
Another asthma attack
Waiting to enter a classroom
With no support
Accused of knowing nothing
After years of study
Years of being questioned
By students, arrogant, nasty
Wondering whether my degree
Amounted to anything
I left, with no job
To save my life
If I could
Prepared to flip
Hamburgers
Or live under a bridge
Anything but teach
And, I love to teach
Does that tell you
Anything?
Valerie Bridgeman
© August 12, 2013
Sunday, August 11, 2013
TRYING
I watch from a distance
feel the disconnect
and know that it is only
a matter of time before
this ship shatters,
falls apart. You're trying.
I can see it. I know you mean
well. But sometimes
people are just
not willing to know
and do the truth
are not wanting
change even if
its a good thing for them
they want the worse
so they can feel
good about their
small lives...
they want others to be
as small as they are
I can see you trying
to make them believe
something else is
possible, something
else is at work
and I can see
fear coil around
those who cannot
for the life of
them breathe
but I see you
trying to get
an oxygen mask
on them
one by one
I can see you trying.
© Valerie Bridgeman
August 11, 2013
feel the disconnect
and know that it is only
a matter of time before
this ship shatters,
falls apart. You're trying.
I can see it. I know you mean
well. But sometimes
people are just
not willing to know
and do the truth
are not wanting
change even if
its a good thing for them
they want the worse
so they can feel
good about their
small lives...
they want others to be
as small as they are
I can see you trying
to make them believe
something else is
possible, something
else is at work
and I can see
fear coil around
those who cannot
for the life of
them breathe
but I see you
trying to get
an oxygen mask
on them
one by one
I can see you trying.
© Valerie Bridgeman
August 11, 2013
Saturday, August 10, 2013
ONLY WAY
The only way to complete
a task, to do the deed
you set for yourself, to succeed
at a thing is to keep doing
it... one day, one moment
one decision at a time
carry the load
as light as you can
work against
your own disbelief
act as if it will
be all right
even when you
can't imagine
another world
walk into
the new one
like through
a wall that opens
right as you almost
bang your head against
it... just do the deed
whether you see
where this
will lead
or not
© Valerie Bridgeman
August 10, 2013
a task, to do the deed
you set for yourself, to succeed
at a thing is to keep doing
it... one day, one moment
one decision at a time
carry the load
as light as you can
work against
your own disbelief
act as if it will
be all right
even when you
can't imagine
another world
walk into
the new one
like through
a wall that opens
right as you almost
bang your head against
it... just do the deed
whether you see
where this
will lead
or not
© Valerie Bridgeman
August 10, 2013
Friday, August 9, 2013
STAY
Stay alive
I have nothing else
just... stay
alive
I can't give you
any good reason
just... alive
stay
please
© Valerie Bridgeman
August 9, 2013
I have nothing else
just... stay
alive
I can't give you
any good reason
just... alive
stay
please
© Valerie Bridgeman
August 9, 2013
COMFORT
I had words
but they were stuck
in my throat
as your tears
were once
again
bread in your
belly
I wish I knew
how to comfort
you
© Valerie Bridgeman
August 8, 2013
but they were stuck
in my throat
as your tears
were once
again
bread in your
belly
I wish I knew
how to comfort
you
© Valerie Bridgeman
August 8, 2013
Thursday, August 8, 2013
A VOICE AND A STICK
What do you have
to work with if not
your own voice
to speak what some
would never say
and a stick used
to guide sheep or
lean on like a cane?
What will happen
to them both: voice
and stick... when you
give them up for a
higher purpose
believe in something
more than your
own survival
work for the freedom
of everyone you
know
trust that the smallest
of instruments will
yield a mighty blow
© Valerie Bridgeman
August 7, 2013
to work with if not
your own voice
to speak what some
would never say
and a stick used
to guide sheep or
lean on like a cane?
What will happen
to them both: voice
and stick... when you
give them up for a
higher purpose
believe in something
more than your
own survival
work for the freedom
of everyone you
know
trust that the smallest
of instruments will
yield a mighty blow
© Valerie Bridgeman
August 7, 2013
Tuesday, August 6, 2013
MAKING PEACE
For a piece of peace
I seek to let go of
all the distress that
stalks me
for just a little
I long for a box
with all the ingredients
for making peace
from the leftovers
of late night
confessions
and the times
I've just made a mess
of things when I was
working so hard to get
it right
One day, I won't sing
of peace, I will be
at rest
© Valerie Bridgeman
August 6, 2013
I seek to let go of
all the distress that
stalks me
for just a little
I long for a box
with all the ingredients
for making peace
from the leftovers
of late night
confessions
and the times
I've just made a mess
of things when I was
working so hard to get
it right
One day, I won't sing
of peace, I will be
at rest
© Valerie Bridgeman
August 6, 2013
HANDBASKET
If on the face of it
the world is going to hell
in a handbasket
who will be holding
the handles?
© Valerie Bridgeman
August 5, 2013
Late posting (totally), but posted
Sunday, August 4, 2013
PHONE CALL
I wake just before the phone rings
as if my heart knew you would call
You talk, I listen... it is strained
nothing like the ease of days
before when we talked over
each other, finished sentences
mid-stream... listened to the silence
believing the other knew the
end and the beginning of
the matters at hand... I wait
for your halted words, I halt
as you wait for mine
We do not know each other
this morning
an odd confession
given how intimately
we have known
the curves and indentations
of each other's heart.
I wish, but not out loud
you confess, but only in a whisper
this strain of time and trust
betray our struggle to be
close at hand, and I am
grateful even in the ruins
© Valerie Bridgeman
August 4, 2013
as if my heart knew you would call
You talk, I listen... it is strained
nothing like the ease of days
before when we talked over
each other, finished sentences
mid-stream... listened to the silence
believing the other knew the
end and the beginning of
the matters at hand... I wait
for your halted words, I halt
as you wait for mine
We do not know each other
this morning
an odd confession
given how intimately
we have known
the curves and indentations
of each other's heart.
I wish, but not out loud
you confess, but only in a whisper
this strain of time and trust
betray our struggle to be
close at hand, and I am
grateful even in the ruins
© Valerie Bridgeman
August 4, 2013
Saturday, August 3, 2013
TODAY
Today was a good day
and when "good" and
"day" make an appearance
in the same sentence
in the same kiss
I'm good
© Valerie Bridgeman
August 3, 2013
and when "good" and
"day" make an appearance
in the same sentence
in the same kiss
I'm good
© Valerie Bridgeman
August 3, 2013
CRAZY
It ain't easy to be crazy
to live in the space
between words that make sense
and angels whispering
in your ear, to be able
to see what cannot be seen
and try to explain it
in a way that sounds
normal... some say the crazy
are prophets; others just
wait for the meds to kick in
© Valerie Bridgeman
August 2, 2013
LATE POSTING. but posted
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